Ghost of a Chance
by Jimmy the Gothic Egg
Summary: [AU. Title pending.] Tucker Foley and Sam Manson are living normal lives, but what happens when a part of their past they thought they put behind comes back to haunt them? Emotions run high, and lives are put on the edge of ruin.
1. Chapter 1

One Sunday morn this pops into my head, and I roll with it. I be rolling.

((I've been talking like that for a few days. I must stop.))

**Don't worry** if at first glance you don't like the pairings. Who knows? I might change them.

Title not so good. I'm still working out the dynamics of this story. If the title changes, well, that's not uncommon with me.

_Ghost of a Chance_

**Chapter One: Work and Play**

There was loud knocking on the door, and Tucker didn't like it. He knew who it was, what said person wanted, and that said person would probably be ready to do whatever she can to annoy him this morning. So it was probably in his best interest to annoy her first, lest he be annoyed.

He grabbed his coffee (sweet nectar that it was) and leaned beside the door so she could not see him. Her knocking was growing with frustration, but he just smiled and took a sip.

"I wonder who could be knocking at my door," he said in a loud voice, certain she could hear him. "It is _too early _for visitors."

It was most definitely Sam's voice on the other end. "Why, it's Scary Robber Lady," she said inherusualsarcastic tone. "She's here to steal all your valuables."

He bit back a chuckle. "Scary Robber Lady came to the wrong place. The most valuable thing I've got in here I'm still making payments on."

"She says let her in before she breaks down the door." The door actually shuddered, and he tried to think how much he'd have to pay to replace it. Would he have to get the same off white chipped paint with broken number? It was probably free. You just had to dig it out of a trash can somewhere.

He opened the door, smiling as Sam huffed through, clearly annoyed at the length of time he was taking to get ready. Her annoyance would probably only grow throughout the day, so he might as well start breaking down that will to live. (Sam wasn't the suicide type though, was she? She'd probably come to work one day with a shot gun and start blowing brains out. Just because she was against violence didn't mean she didn't know how to break a man.)

"Good morning," he said as cheerily as possible, ignoring the evil eye she was giving him. "What are we up to this lovely day? A walk in the park? That depressing museum exhibit you want to see? Later we can see that disturbing French film you've been talking about all week."

"Shut up, Tucker," she said.

"Oh that's right." He gave a depressing sigh. "What sad fate. Work it is. I guess I should pay my rent and eat this week."

"If you don't show me coffee I'm pushing you out a window."

He laughed and handed her a mug. She quickly filled it and downed it in a gulp.

"I really should've just taken that stupid job my parents offered," she said, getting another cup. "At least then I'd have money."

"You always told me you lived better without money." He sat down beside her, wondering if the clock was trying to tell him he was late or if he had enough time for more coffee. "Remember? 'Live off the land' and all that."

"Bums live off the land. I need air conditioning and internet. Besides, living off the land in my parents' world is the same as finding a nice, rich man who'll pay for everything until I don't want him around anymore. Then I'll marry some rich old geezer and have various affairs until he dies. I'll have all his money, and _then_ I'll follow my dreams."

"You could marry a hobo," Tucker suggested. "Hobos are eccentric bums."

She smiled, grabbing the coffee and wondering if she could chug it all at once. "I'd be Queen of the Hobos. Money wouldn't be a problem, and I don't eat meat anyway. I'll just chew on muddy paper and drink heated dirt."

"I knew a hobo once. He lived in our trash can. I brought him papers and scraps of the food we ate. He was flea-infested and had a pet rat that bit my sister and gave her a disease. We finally hosed him down and he ran away, back to a life where you gain the trust of small children."

"Enough talk!" Sam jumped up, slamming down her cup.

"Hey!" he said. "I actually paid money on these."

"Doesn't matter! We're late!"

No… She wouldn't have a shot gun. Probably just explode the entire building and join some insane organization to hide her identity.

---

"Sam, I'm telling you. They're not going to let you do a story on keeping the tigers in cages at the circus."

"But…"

"No. Children are not scarred for life by them."

"I was!"

"You came out scarred for life. Your first words were probably 'Save the whales!'"

"Sam! Tucker!"

They jumped up, swiveling their chairs away from each other as if they'd been working the entire time. (Certainly not discussing Sam's plan to free animals from the circus or Tucker's perfect heist of the electronics store! No, for they were good little children.)

Molly Sweet stood in front of them in all her business glory, glaring down like the mother who'd caught the children with their hands in the cookie jar.

"No, Tucker," Sam said loudly, pretending to be oblivious to the chief editor before them. "That's totally the wrong angle for that story. Everyone knows people want _lower_ prices on gadgetry. I'm not paying three times my salary for a cell phone."

"You're completely right, Sam!" he shouted in faux epiphany. "I guess I'll have to go find cheaper prices."

Molly rolled her eyes and grabbed the back of Sam's chair, pulling her towards Tucker and sitting them down like disciplined school children.

"You two need to stop talking and _work_," she said, going straight to the point. Molly was like that. It made both of them cringe. "I haven't gotten either of your stories, and your deadlines are today. _I need those stories._"

"Already sent mine in," Tucker piped up. "Two seconds ago."

Molly sent him a pointed look, and he sheepishly moved his fingers to the keyboard. Sam shrugged her shoulders and kicked her chair over to her desk.

"I need 23 more words," she said. "It'll be done and ready to print."

Molly made a noise that clearly stated she didn't believe her, but decided against saying anything else. She turned on her heel and moved to the next people she needed to yell at.

Sam glanced at Tucker, who bit back a smile. She opened an IM window, signing on with her usual name. Tuck followed suit, keeping a careful eye on Molly as she stalked and yelled.

**GothicMistressofAngryFruit:** Molly's getting anal again.

**TechGeek45: **It must be that time of the month.

**GothicMistressofAngryFruit:** One day a woman will beat you senseless and you won't be able to figure out why.

**GothicMistressofAngryFruit: **Anyway, I need a favor.

**TechGeek45: **Is this going to hurt?

**TechGeek45:** This doesn't involve scarring children by freeing lions again, does it?

**GothicMistressofAngryFruit:** No.

**GothicMistressofAngryFruit:** I wish.

**TechGeek45:** What is it?

**GothicMistressofAngryFruit:** I need to go to one of those stupid parties my parents have every other week.

**TechGeek45: **I thought you didn't have to do that anymore.

**GothicMistressofAngryFruit:** Not since college.

**GothicMistressofAngryFruit:** But this is a favor they need. I agreed to go along with it.

**TechGeek45:** Why? You hate those things.

**GothicMistressofAngryFruit:** They can't make it, but they need some family there. Since I'm their only child, I might as well, and I can brave one with the promise of free drinks.

**TechGeek45:** What do you need me for?

**GothicMistressofAngryFruit:** I need a date.

**TechGeek45:** I hate those things too. I'm not going.

**GothicMistressofAngryFruit:** Please! I need someone there who isn't pretentious or pure evil.

**TechGeek45:** You don't know. I could secretly be high society.

**GothicMistressofAngryFruit:** You? Never.

**TechGeek45:** What do I get?

**GothicMistressofAngryFruit:** Free drinks and you won't have to wear a suit.

**TechGeek45:** I do love free stuff. And drinks. Together it's pure awesome.

Sam smiled, leaning back in her seat.

"Sam!" Molly screamed from across the room. "Work!"

She tried to ignore Tucker's laugh.

**Notes:**

This is most definitely an AU, just so you know. It's probably obvious, but I'll point it out anyway: Sam and Tucker are reporters. The exact nature of their jobs is going to be explained in further detail.

Most of the dialogue in this went through my head this morning, and I knew I needed to write something for it. Then a plot kind of followed, and this was created.

**Next Chapter: the mysterious Inviso-Bill, and why he hates that name.**


	2. Postmortem Messages

Don't think me so simple, people. I may not be the most creative person in the world, but you have to give me some credit here. This story has a few nice little twists.

(("What a twist!"))

**There's some nastiness of words in this chapter.** I'm sorry, but that's how I'd react. I don't know about the rest of you.

Oh, and lots of hatred towards the rich. **I apologize to the rich people.**

_Ghost of a Chance_

**Chapter Two: Postmortem Messages**

"What's the headline?" Sam asked as Tucker held up the next day's edition of the paper.

"Artic seals eat penguin population," he answered. "Environmentalists pissed."

"Shut up and let me see," she said, snatching the paper from his hands. "'Inviso-Bill: Menace or Misunderstood?' Nice."

He shrugged, sitting down. "He's getting publicity."

"He needs a publicist," she muttered. "'Inviso-Bill?' Who thought up that cripe?"

"Writers for the news station I think. They love coining stupid phrases."

"Damn," she said, skimming the article. "'A malevolent spirit?' An evil soul from beyond the grave? What are we: tabloids? I saw Bigfoot marry a zombie. They've got three kids now."

"Come on, Sam? You've never seen anything spooky?"

"Sure I have. I live for spooky. Sometimes I do séances and talk to my grandma."

"…Your grandma isn't dead."

"Exactly."

He shook his head and pulled the article away. "You just refuse to make sense."

"It's the side affect of being a reporter. You have to lay everything all nice and neat before people, so later you just freak out and babble so they don't understand a single thing you say."

"Why are we friends?"

"Because I always pay for lunch. Come on. I'm hungry."

---

The day ended much as it started, with friendly bickering and the threat of unemployment. (If Molly had her way, they'd be hanged with nooses made of unfinished stories.)

Sam kicked her door open, trying to stare over the huge box in her hands. Her parents had sent her another useless item, she just knew it. Probably filled with pink frilly dresses and coupons for lessons on being a rich white girl. Curse them. Curse them and their rich white people ways. She could imagine them sitting over fancy wine and broken dreams of people not as rich as they, planning how to force her to be happy in their lifestyle, or at least not so rebellious in it.

She dropped the package, disappointed when there was no sound of breaking glass. Messages blinked on her phone, and she tried to imagine who would call her.

(Her parents again. And maybe Tuck, but she saw him ten minutes ago. Molly didn't call home numbers, just cell phones, and she usually ignored those.)

Yes, yes, her imagination was definitely getting away from her. She didn't mind so much. It gave her something to do during the day when the computer screen finally burned through her cornea.

The box peered at her through the kitchen walls, and she stared back, narrowing her eyes at it. Probably a travesty of a dress to wear to the stupid party. She imagined the kitten nose pink and giant, obtrusive frills that would swallow her whole.

She pulled scissors out of a drawer and attacked the box with them. For a minute she thought her parents had sent her something _live_ and dropped the scissors in horror. The box shuddered, shook, and suddenly burst open. Sam screamed and fell back, grabbing the scissors and holding them out as deadly weapons. Fabric burst out (not pink or frilly, she realized, but pink and frilly had never jumped out and attacked her) and fell over her, causing another scream. She tore away the dress and jumped up, and her eyes widened at what she saw.

A man stood—_floated_, oh how she wanted to scream—before her, chubby and dressed tackily, and _glowing._

(_Floating _and fucking _glowing_! She was going to need therapy. Or alcohol. They worked in the same way.)

The man glared at her, and she stared back, the scissors dropping to point towards the floor. He raised his arms, and she cringed, expecting the worse. And then…

"_BEWARE!_"

She peeked an eye open, staring towards the apparition.

"Beware!" he bellowed. "For I am the Box Ghost!"

She stopped cringing and her stare changed from shock and fear to something more like quizzical annoyance.

"I'm sorry," she said, pointing the scissors at him. "What?"

"I am… THE BOX GHOST! Fear me and my mastery over box-shaped items!"

Fear was not something she was doing. "Look, um… Box Ghost… was it? I would really…" (Oh, what was she doing! Reasoning with a _ghost_! Or a crazed little man with an incredibly stupid idea for a prank.) "You can't just… leave? Um… Please?"

The specter blinked, clearly perplexed by what she was saying. He took a minute to think before screaming another "beware" and disappearing through the wall. Sam was left with one simple thought:

_What the fuck just happened?_

---

"_No, I swear, Tuck. He called himself 'the Box Ghost.'_"

Tucker chuckled, kicking his feet back on the table as he clattered a few keys on his laptop. "It's really farfetched, even for you, Sam. Your parents sent you a haunted package? I know you think they're evil, but come on."

He could see her simmer. "_Okay, so maybe _they_ specifically did not send me a haunted package. But it's definitely from them. Guess what it had inside._"

"A box from your parents?" He imagined the abomination hidden therein. "A dress. Is it atrocious? They love sending you atrocious things."

"_No… actually. I was surprised. It's… beautiful._"

He frowned. Parental brainwashing? Not Sam. She had anti-brainwashing walls installed in her mind. Except by crazy cults that worshiped demons (that had been a crazy week) and goth kids.

"_You'll be seeing it on Friday, I guess. I get to welcome some famous millionaire. Or billionaire. Or I-own-an-entire-country-and-drink-wine-with-my-pretentious-friends-aire."_

"I don't think those are real things, Sam." Something blinked on his computer screen, and he leaned forward. "I'm gonna leave you. Recount your thrilling tale to me tomorrow. Sounds like the thing was harmless anyway."

"_Fine, but if it comes back, do I have permission to club it?_"

"As long as there are no witnesses."

"_I'll see you tomorrow then._"

Tuck set down his phone and groaned. Stupid owing of favors to crazy rich friends. He'd forgotten about Friday already. At least she wasn't making him wear something fancy this time.

Sam and Tucker had been friends since high school with a falling out in college. After he got his job at the paper they worked for, he'd found himself seated right beside her, and they decided to catch up. Since he'd known her he'd been her "date" for the fancy parties she hated, and they usually snuck out and went to Nasty Burger. It would probably be easier this time without her parents there to catch them, and since they both had _cars_, it would be easier than walking.

He clicked a few buttons on his computer, trying to see whatever message he'd missed. It blinked across the screen, and he sighed. Just someone signing on. For some reason he'd thought it was something else.

He closed the laptop and wheeled himself over to the fridge to grab a sandwich, when he stopped himself and hurried back to the computer screen.

**PhentomDan has signed on.**

**Notes:**

You'll figure out why this is such a shocker next chapter.

I don't think as many people would fear the dark if they realized all that was there was a half-assed ghost who had "mastery over boxes."

I'm back on Rilo Kiley. Damn. They're what God listens to when he's high.

((I'm gonna get burned for that one. I know it.))

**Next Chapter: Everybody dies.**


	3. Repressing Depressing Memories

"Phentom" was a play on "Fenton" and "Phantom." I didn't just want to come right out and say either, mostly for the insecurity of our main characters.

_Ghost of a Chance_

**Chapter Three: Repressing (Depressing) Memories**

Sam had expected the usual routine that morning, despite her run in with the not-so-spooky spook, and her spirits were unusually high.

(Damn her parents. To the ninth circle of hell, or maybe the VIP room. If they couldn't buy their way into heaven, they'd certainly try for that.)

It surprised her, though, when Tucker did not immediately answer her poundings with obnoxious rants about how early it was and that she needed something else to occupy her time than getting him up in the morning. After a few minutes she pulled the cheapest trick in the book and got out her key.

(Tucker would not be happy with her. He always threatened to take the key back, because she liked to use it at the most inconvenient of times. She also liked to hide _his_ key under a rock and blackmail him with her spare.)

The door opened, and she stepped inside. The usual smell of coffee was there, but it was different than she would have liked. There was food spread out across the kitchen counter, and ten cups lined up, each rimmed with decaying caffeine, and she knew. Tuck had pulled an all-nighter.

It was not his usual thing, but Molly _had_ been pressing them pretty tight. She would have to mutter dirty things behind her back and hope she heard them. (That usually did absolutely nothing, but it made her feel better.)

Tucker himself was actually nowhere to be seen. She peered into the bedroom, saw absolutely nothing, and went back into the kitchen.

Well, it wouldn't hurt to have a new batch of coffee ready when he decided to crawl out of whatever decomposed pile of magazines he was hiding under. She glanced around the apartment, searching for any sign of him.

Her eyes caught his computer.

From the looks of things, definitely an all-nighter. He had been doing research on something—probably his newest column (he wrote the gadget column on Wednesdays: _Technology for Techno Savvy (and Not So Savvy)_.)

Sam leaned towards the computer, trying to see what he'd been looking at. He usually never left things out for her to look at, mostly because of her ability to turn every statement into an insult, and because he was paranoid about things. Why, she had no idea. (Well, she had _some_ idea—a lot of ideas, actually, but she didn't share them on the fact that it was mostly her making fun of him. She did that a lot. She wondered if she should tone it down a bit.)

(But then where would all the fun be?)

She lifted the screen of the laptop back a few centimeters to read it better, when the door slammed shut, and she jumped back, falling down into her chair. Tucker was standing there, fumbling over some plastic bags (early morning grocery shopping? Not his usual style.) He caught her eyes and tried not to drop the extra bag he couldn't quite carry. A bag of chips was clenched between his teeth and he threw the bags onto the counter.

"Are you early or am I late?" he asked.

"You're late," she answered, peeking into the bags. "What've you been up to all night?"

His eyes widened then narrowed, and he reached over to slam close the laptop. "Research on… something."

She raised an eyebrow and leaned back. "Something? Is it something I should know about?"

It was a teasing kind of scolding, but he turned on her with a very serious eye, and suddenly she didn't want to tease him so much about it. For some reason, she very much did not want to know.

Then a quirky grin broke over his face (it was forced, but she didn't question it), and he gave a knowing shrug.

"I'll tell you later."

---

"_What just happened?"_

"_I don't—" A fit of coughing. "I don't know. Where's—"_

_The doors slid open. It was all really a blur._

"_Oh my god…"_

"_What is it? What's—"_

_Screams._

Sam jumped as she heard the thwack of papers hitting desk. She opened an eye to see Molly leering over her, her face a battle between rage and annoyance or a cool, calm, collective way to handle the problem.

Molly, as it was her nature, took rage and annoyance.

"What is this crap?" she said, holding up the article Sam had turned in just yesterday.

Sam didn't bother reading the words. They seemed jumbled before her eyes. What had she been doing? When did she take a nap?

"Honestly, Sam," Molly continued. "I know I ride you constantly, but _this_—I don't even know what it is. It's certainly not a story. Is this payback for me yelling at you everyday?"

Who had screamed? Sam was uncertain. Her head felt muddled and she felt sweat beads at her hairline.

"Look, I'll let it slide this once, because most of the time I get some good insight from you. But—Sam?"

That was when Sam threw up over Molly's two hundred dollar shoes.

---

Tucker had stopped over, bringing gifts of movies and food for her sickness. Sam was lying listless on the couch, a cold washcloth over her forehead.

"I'm proud of you, Sam," he said, displaying the things he brought before her. "You felt the need to puke, and you aimed for the perfect place. None of us could have done much better."

"Tucker," she said quietly. "Do you remember Danny?"

The question was too sudden, and Tucker froze. He sat down beside her, picking at the edge of the blanket she had wrapped around herself.

"…Yeah," he answered. "Why do you bring it up?"

He didn't meet her eyes.

"You don't…" She struggled to prop herself up, kicking off the blanket. "You don't remember when—"

"It was an accident," he whispered, clutching the fallen blanket tight. She blinked for a minute, then uncurled his fist.

"I know. I didn't mean to bring him up. I thought—Today, I was thinking about when it happened."

"Someone signed on the IM last night," he said, and she thought that meant to drop it.

It didn't.

"It was Danny."

Her eyes went wide, and she clung onto his arm to keep herself steady. "What! That's not possible."

"I didn't think so either. And I'm probably completely delusional, but it was his name, and I almost started talking to him, but he signed off too fast."

"Tuck…" Her voice was soft. "Danny's dead. He can't be online."

"_I know_. But I was thinking about it. It could be that…"

The rest of his words slipped away as Sam felt bile rise in her throat.

It was the best way, she decided, to end the conversation.

---

Thoughts raced through Sam's mind as she found herself unable to sleep. The day had been so utterly confusing, and she just wanted to close her eyes, but they refused to. It was like a bad dream, and when you squeezed your eyes shut to block it all out, it did no good, because it was there in the dark.

It _had_ been an accident, of course. She'd always managed to repress that memory so perfectly, only rising up in dreams that she quelled quickly. There had been weeks—months—maybe years—where she and Tuck had felt responsible for it all, but everyone told them it wasn't their fault. But for a long time, they stood by their conviction, no matter how it made them feel.

Daniel Fenton had died, and they had killed him.

No matter how many times they went over it, no matter how many therapy sessions they'd gone too, and (in her case) no matter how far her parents moved her away, there was always that deep sense of blame that Sam had finally managed to put behind her.

There would be nightmares tonight.

**Notes:**

I'm sure most of you can figure out what "the accident" was. I like giving my characters shocking revelations, but they never turn out that shocking.

A rather depressing ending. I miss my witty banter.

**Next Chapter: Sometimes you apologize, sometimes you ignore it.**


End file.
